


I Don't Even Like You

by KlingonEtiquette



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Humor, Aziraphale has a student job at the library, Crowley and Aziraphale are long-suffering seniors about to graduate, Crowley and Aziraphale babysit them, Crowley works on the campus radio and basically just plays Queen, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Multi, Pining, Romance, armageddon? more like wtf why do I need this many credits to graduate?, as far as Crowley's concerned at least, newt and anathema are freshmen, not a lot of angst though, the them are in middle school
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-04-08 08:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KlingonEtiquette/pseuds/KlingonEtiquette
Summary: Aziraphale was always... Aziraphale. There wasn't another word in the world that suited him as much as his own name. Aziraphale carried himself with dignity and grace—too much for any twenty-two year old, as far as Crowley was concerned. But he had always been like that, even when they were kids in the sandbox. Where Crowley was tall and sharp, Aziraphale was short(er) and soft. His curly hair was so blond that it looked white in certain lights, and he had the bluest eyes Crowley had ever seen. He spoke sweetly, pronouncing every syllable with careful precision as if reading from one of his favorite books, and he seldom swore.And Crowley was in love with him.[Also known as "The College AU No One Asked For."]





	1. Chapter 1

"My point is," Crowley said, leaning across the table on his elbows. "My point is... the freshmen." 

Aziraphale looked only mildly concerned. It wasn't enough to make him look up from his book, much to Crowley's disappointment, but it was enough to cause the slightest of furrows in his brow and the faintest downward twitch of his lips. When he turned the page, the sound was lost in the din of chattering students and clattering cups and saucers. Maybe this particular campus café was a bad place to talk. Maybe it was just a bad place to talk during orientation week. 

For a minute and a half, Crowley waited for Aziraphale to say something. He was met with silence. 

"Are you even listening to me?" he asked, trying to keep the whiny edge out of his voice. 

"Hmm?" Aziraphale still didn't look up. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Crowley took a scalding gulp of coffee. "Oh, forget it."

"No, no, please." Aziraphale set his book down and picked up his teacup. "I'm listening. Really."

"Right. Right, well, my point is the freshmen. They're so..."

"Adorable?" Aziraphale offered. It wasn't quite the world Crowley was looking for. 

"Small. Pathetic, actually. I mean, look at them! D'you think we looked that pathetic?"

Frowning, Aziraphale took another delicate sip of tea. "Well, I... I don't think they look  _pathetic,_ exactly. They  _are_ rather babyfaced. And I'm... I'm sure the upperclassmen thought the same of us when we were their age."

Crowley banged his palm flat on the table, sending sparks of pain up his arm. "When we were their age!" he cried. "Exactly! How old are they—eighteen? Seventeen, some of them? Nineteen maybe?"

Aziraphale nodded. He looked pensive, teacup hovering just about its immaculate saucer. In all the years they had been friends, Crowley had never once seen Aziraphale spill a drop of tea. In all the years they had been friends, Crowley had never seen Aziraphale spill  _anything_. Tea, coffee, wine, secrets, pencils. Not even the piles and piles of books he carried everywhere. Not one. Not like Crowley, who couldn't seem to keep anything in order for more than an hour or two, if that. Aziraphale was always... Aziraphale. There wasn't another word in the world that suited him as much as his own name. Aziraphale carried himself with dignity and grace—too much for any twenty-two year old, as far as Crowley was concerned. But he had always been like that, even when they were kids in the sandbox. Where Crowley was tall and sharp, Aziraphale was short(er) and soft. His curly hair was so blond that it looked white in certain lights, and he had the bluest eyes Crowley had ever seen. He spoke sweetly, pronouncing every syllable with careful precision as if reading from one of his favorite books, and he seldom swore. 

And Crowley was in love with him. 

Fuck, Crowley was so in love with him it hurt. He was so in love with Aziraphale, he thought he might never get a good night's sleep again. He didn't even try anymore. There wasn't anything a strong cup of coffee—or five—couldn't fix after a night of lying awake, analyzing everything he'd said or done wrong during the day, analyzing everything that made him unworthy of Aziraphale, analyzing everything that made Aziraphale too good for him. 

"Are you all right?" Aziraphale asked gently. Crowley jumped, nearly tipping his coffee onto his lap. 

"Fine. Fine. Peachy."

Aziraphale raised one eyebrow. "Peachy?"

 _Fuck._ "Fuck. Shit. Damn. God-fucking-damnit."

The eyebrow raised higher, threatening to abandon Aziraphale's face for the clouds above. 

"I didn't mean 'peachy.' When I said 'peachy,' I didn't mean 'peachy.' I don't  _say_ 'peachy.'" Petulantly, Crowley put the tip of his thumb between his teeth and bit down hard.  _Peachy_ , he thought.  _Fucking who the fuck says 'peachy?'_

Except Crowley knew  _exactly_ who said 'peachy.' Aziraphale said 'peachy.' Aziraphale said 'peachy' and Crowley, lost and desperately in love, said it in some stupid, pathetic cry for attention. 

Though his brow furrowed again, Aziraphale said nothing but, "I believe you, dear."

That word,  _dear_ , cut through Crowley like a knife. 

"So the freshmen are bothering you more than usual?" 

Grateful for a reprieve, Crowley nodded. He picked up Aziraphale's book and thumbed through the pages, ignoring Aziraphale's half-hearted protests. It looked boring, anyway. As far as Crowley was concerned, he was doing Aziraphale a favor. 

"Damn right they are," Crowley said. "You don't feel it?"

With a heavy sigh, Aziraphale shook his head, blond curls bouncing over his forehead. "I don't have the same disdain towards other people. Not the way you do, obviously."

"Obviously," Crowley mocked, making his voice harsh and nasal. " _Obviously_." 

Aziraphale gave him the most withering glare he could muster, holding out his hand for the book. "May I have that back now? I've got class in ten minutes."

Crowley checked his watch.  _1:55_. "Ah, right." He grinned. "What do I get if I do?"

Gathering up his things, Aziraphale shook his head. Much to Crowley's delight, he was fighting a smile. "You really  _are_ a devil, you know."

"It's why you love me..." Boldly, he added, "Angel," and watched Aziraphale's cheeks go pink. 

"I... I have to go. Now. Class. Can't be late."

"Angel," Crowley said again. "Are you around tonight?"

"I have to... study," Aziraphale murmured. He and Crowley both knew that was a lie. 

"I'll pick you up at eight."

"Eight-thirty?"

"Eight-thirty, then," Crowley agreed. It wasn't a date. It was never a date. But it was something, and something, Crowley decided, was infinitely better than nothing. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

There were few things in the world that Aziraphale considered miracles, and of those things, there were fewer still that he considered true miracles. The world worked in strange and mysterious ways, yes, but those ways often presented themselves in smaller, easier-to-swallow "coincidences" that could be passed off as an interesting afternoon, if you noticed them at all. He certainly did not believe in the grander miracles people claimed—healing the sick through prayer, for one. 

In fact, in Aziraphale's life, the biggest miracle of all was friendship. He had precisely one friend, but that one friend made the whole ordeal of friendship worth the while. And at the moment, that one friend was sleeping at Aziraphale's kitchen table, his head pillowed by a hefty human anatomy textbook and a pile of notebooks. It was chaos. Complete chaos. And at the eye of the storm lay Crowley, looking angelically peaceful as he slept, unaware of the whirlwind his studying had made before he crashed. Aziraphale thought,  _Poor, dear thing... He must be so tired_. Even Aziraphale's first week of classes had been nightmarish, and he  _liked_ studying. Besides, he couldn't imagine what Crowley was thinking, going through all these pre-med classes just to prove a point to a particularly unpleasant and discouraging high school teacher. 

"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asked, but Crowley slept on. 

What was the harm, he wondered, in letting Crowley sleep a little longer? He did look  _so_ lovely now that he wasn't causing any problems for himself (or anyone else, for that matter). Against the black of his clothes, Crowley's face was pale and sharp, his eyes liquid amber behind closed eyelids and thick eyelashes. If he stood up straight, he was just over six feet tall, thin, and shockingly light on his feet for someone who insisted upon wearing heavy black combat boots in all weather. A number of silver, red, and black rings littered his fingers. Despite their abundance, none of them were showy or extravagant. 

Slowly, one eye cracked open. Aziraphale felt a rush of embarrassment, as if he'd been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to. But it passed quickly and he said, "Good morning," as cheerily as he could. 

"Is it?" Crowley asked, bewildered. "Morning?"

"Hmm? Oh, no. Goodness, no. I just thought I'd make a joke. Wasn't very funny, was it?"

With a forced laugh, Crowley closed his textbook (pillow?) and stowed it in his bag. "Very funny. Funniest joke you've ever told, angel." 

"You're laughing at me!" Aziraphale said indignantly, but he was pleased. 

Crowley's mouth curled into a smile. "Isn't that the whole point?"

Well... He was right about that. In lieu of a proper answer, Aziraphale retreated to the back of the kitchen and started the kettle. It wasn't an electric kettle, much as the times called for one of those. Electric kettles, at least to Aziraphale, were too impersonal and chilly. Not the tea. The tea they made was perfectly hot. But the sentiment was chilly. It wasn't right to make tea unless you made it right, and making tea right involved a stove and a kettle and several agonizing minutes of waiting. Making tea right involved anticipation and just a touch of pride when it was all done. Making tea the right way, well, it required—

"Don't tell me you still don't have an electric kettle!" Crowley's voice sounded high and whiny, a little bit cracked from sleeping. "One of these days, I'm throwing that Godforsaken thing out the window. This is the twenty-first century, angel—we've got kettles that go a hell of a lot faster than that one."

"But there isn't any point to making tea if you don't have time to appreciate the process!" Aziraphale protested. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but I promise you there's nothing unreasonable about wanting to savor the  _process_ of making a cup of tea. It's almost as gratifying as drinking it, really, and I—"

"Dunno about that. I just want to see how long I can leave a biscuit in before it breaks down."

Aziraphale knew the answer to that. Though it varied in exact measurements from biscuit to biscuit, the amount of time it took for each one to break down was Not Very Much. 

"Not very long, dear," Aziraphale assured him. 

When a grin spread like honey across Crowley's face, Aziraphale remembered the worst of his undeniable miracles. 

Crowley was everything Aziraphale himself was not. He was tall, thin, graceful, street smart, and rude. He didn't read books except under duress (or a well-worded syllabus). He didn't  _like_ books or appreciate them, not even a little. He glued coins to the sidewalk outside of the library just so he could watch and laugh at the people who walked by and tried to pick them up. Once he'd knocked down the phone and internet systems on campus for two-and-a-half hours just to see what kind of trouble people would get up to without technology to distract them. Aziraphale had spent more than half of that time breaking up fights that started as petty arguments over laughably tiny slights. 

If Aziraphale was an angel on earth (not that such things existed), then Crowley was the devil following close behind. Maybe falling in love was part of some grand, ineffable plan. Maybe it was all set in stone, even before they met each other. If Aziraphale confessed here and now, then surely fate would sort the rest. 

Instead of any of that, he asked, "What kind of biscuits would you like with your tea?"

"Surprise me," Crowley said. 

"Right. Well, I think that's the kettle." It was not the kettle. The kettle was silent. "I'll be back in a minute with your tea."

As much as it hurt to remove the kettle before it whistled, it was better than spending another minute alone with Crowley and his racing thoughts. After all, there was always tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that to confess such feelings. No sense in upsetting a quiet Friday evening on a whim. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The funny thing was, Crowley didn't  _need_ Aziraphale to love him back. He could have anyone he wanted, really, and chasing after Aziraphale was just a waste of his time. Wasn't that one of Einstein's things, that insanity was just doing the same thing again and again and again, hoping for a different outcome after each disappointing attempt? The same could be said for someone like Crowley chasing after someone like Aziraphale. For one thing, Aziraphale attended church at least once a week, while Crowley was almost certain he hadn't set foot in a church since the second Friday before never. What brand of insanity would it take for pure, righteous Aziraphale to lower himself to be with someone as depraved as Crowley? If that wasn't enough, Crowley was sure Aziraphale hated the idea of sunglasses at night. Crowley didn't think he could give those up, even if it was true love. He felt naked without his sunglasses in public. 

"It sounds to me," Dagon said, looking utterly unimpressed, "like you two idiots need to figure it out."

Crowley coughed, his sunglasses slipping ever so slightly down his nose. "I don't remember asking  _you_ for advice."

Shrugging, Dagon checked her watch and gave a frustrated growl. "Twelve forty-five, Crowley. What else d'you want me to do?"

Dagon had a point. Crowley hated to admit it, but Dagon often had a point. If it really was 12:45, then he and Dagon had until 8:00 in the morning to enjoy each other's company. Supposing nothing interesting happened, and nothing interesting  _ever_ happened, they had long, boring hours to fill with as much conversation as they could stand. It wouldn't be long, Crowley figured, until one of them committed a graveyard shift murder. 

So Crowley employed a new tactic called Playing Along. "What do I even say?"

"Don't know. Don't care. Buy him a book."

"A book?" Crowley asked, brows furrowed. "Aziraphale does like books."

"There you go." Dagon hit the table in front of them with the palm of her hand. "Settled." 

It was not, in fact, settled. After half an hour of stony silence, Crowley spun around in his chair and said, "I can't do it."

"Hmm?" There was a sickening series of cracks and pops as Dagon rolled her neck, fixing her eyes lazily on the surveillance screens once she was settled. She didn't sound like she cared, but then again, she never sounded like she cared. 

"I can't buy him a book. I don't  _read_."

Growling, Dagon kicked her feet up onto the desk. "Fuck's sake, Crowley."

" _Fuck's sake, Crowley_ ," Crowley mimicked. To himself, he thought,  _I'm getting pretty good at that._  "You're no help."

"Nope," Dagon agreed helpfully. 

"You know, he goes to church every Sunday."

Dagon snorted with laughter, a very unladylike sound. "Wow. You are  _fucked_."

 _Yeah_ , Crowley thought.  _Tell me something I don't know_. 

It was going to be one Hell of a long night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was pretty short, which means I'll have another one up as soon as I can.


	4. Chapter 4

As much as Anathema hated to admit it, things were not going precisely the way she had planned. But of all the things that could go wrong within the first month of university, she had to face the fact that getting hit by a car had not been high on her list of probabilities. Maybe it should have been, because here she was, lying on the pavement with her books and bike in pieces around her, cradling her broken arm against her chest. 

"Good Lord, Crowley, you could have killed her!" cried a male voice. 

"She could've killed  _us_ , Angel," came the response. 

Dizzy and in pain, Anathema looked for the source of the voices and found what might have been the oddest pair of upperclassmen she had ever seen. One was tall and thin and pointy, dressed head to toe in black and wearing sunglasses despite the cloudy weather. He stood with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, a defiant angle to his hips as he glared down at Anathema. His hair was dark red and carefully styled. Next to him stood his opposite: a few inches shorter, blond, soft-figured and wearing an off-white suit with a blue-grey bowtie. He looked down at Anathema with blue eyes brimming with concern. 

"M'fine," Anathema muttered, though she was decidedly  _not_ _fine_. 

The one Anathema presumed was called Crowley exhaled through his nose. "See, Angel? She's fine. Can we get going now?"

His friend, whom Anathema presumed was called Angel, said, "Absolutely not! She needs medical attention. We'll have to take her to A&E ourselves."

Crowley gave an indignant cough, tearing off his sunglasses. His eyes were the most remarkable shade of amber. "We... Excuse me, I'm sorry,  _what?_ "

Angel crossed his arms. "We'll have to drive her to the hospital." He moved to help Anathema to her feet, careful not to jostle her arm. As much as she could manage, Anathema helped. The last thing she wanted was to be beholden to a pair of strange upperclassmen. 

When she saw the damage to her bike, Anathema nearly burst into tears. It wasn't a very good bike, but it was Anathema's bike. It was one she'd spent hours and hours working to save up for, despite the fact that her family had more than enough money to buy her a better bike. To them, the bike had been a silly show of stubbornness. To Anathema, that bike had been proof that she could do something for herself. She didn't need to rely on her parents' money. She didn't need to rely on anyone but herself. 

And now it was in pieces. 

"Oh..." she whispered, her voice cracking. Angel's hands tightened gently on her shoulders. 

"Oh dear," he said. Then, to Crowley, "Do you know anyone who can fix a bike?"

Crowley raised one eyebrow. "Fix that thing? I don't think  _anyone_ can fix that thing."

"Crowley!"

"Fine, fine, I'll ask around." Reluctantly, as if every second pained him, Crowley started to gather up the pieces of Anathema's bike. He picked up her books, too, frowning at the covers with thinly veiled disdain. Full of false politeness, he asked, "Are we taking you to A&E?"

"I have pepper spray," Anathema warned when Crowley reached out to open the car door for her. He didn't seem frightened, only laughed and slid his sunglasses back up his nose with one long finger. 

"Good for you. Are we taking you to A&E or not?" He turned to his friend. "You're sitting in the back with her, Aziraphale. Don't want her passing out and dying in my car."

_Aziraphale...?_ Sheepishly, Anathema realized "angel" was only a nickname, spelled with a lowercase "a," a sign of affection. Even more sheepishly, she realized she might not have needed to threaten Crowley at all. 

"Thank you," she said quietly once she was settled in the car. "I... It's very kind of you to—"

"Shut up," Crowley replied, starting the engine. 

The drive to the Tadfield emergency room was the most awkward drive Anathema had ever been through in her life. 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley and Aziraphale did not speak to each other for the entire duration of the ride back to campus. Crowley thought it had something to do with Anathema Device, the girl whose bike had hit Crowley's car. No, Crowley  _knew_ it had something (or everything) to do with her. But when Crowley turned on the radio and Aziraphale didn't so much as protest, Crowley felt his stomach twist itself into sickening knots. What if it wasn't just about Anathema? For a dizzying moment, Crowley wondered what he would do if Aziraphale somehow  _knew_. What if, by some ungodly miracle, Aziraphale had gotten to talking with someone in the library and that someone just so happened to be Dagon? Dagon didn't read. Crowley knew for a fact Dagon didn't read. But he also knew for a fact that Dagon was petty, vindictive, and devastatingly clumsy on the rare occasion she genuinely tried to help. But if that were the case, would Aziraphale have gotten in the car this morning to begin with? Would he have endured the drive to and from A&E if he had a single clue that Crowley was... It didn't warrant saying.  _In love with_. What a ridiculous phrase. 

"You can drop me off here," Aziraphale said when they reached the library. Crowley didn't argue.

"See you later?" Crowley asked, a little too hopeful. 

"We'll see," was the reply. Crowley thought it sounded like  _no_. 

"Right. I'll call you."

He did not call Aziraphale. Even as the hours ticked by and the clock crept closer and closer to midnight, he did not call Aziraphale. Instead, he got out his most revolting vodka, turned on his most obnoxious CD, and put the fear of God (or, rather, Crowley) into his most obedient houseplants. 

By midnight, the plants were less afraid than they should have been and Crowley was less coherent than he wanted to be. 

"An' he has such nice eyes," Crowley told his hanging devil's ivy.

The Devil's Ivy said nothing. 

"I know, I know, 's'not about that. 's'about... personal...personality." Crowley ran his finger down one of the leaves before turning to the calathea sitting on the floor near a large window. "And Aziraphale has  _lots_ of personality. He's got... just... the biggest personality. Best. He's soft."

As it so happened, the calathea was as useless as the devil's ivy. None of the plants had any advice. They just looked on and laughed, gleeful to see Crowley brought down so low by someone so pure and good as Aziraphale. Or so Crowley thought. The truth was, he couldn't know exactly what his plants were thinking, or if they thought anything at all. And drunk as he was, he wasn't nearly drunk enough to have his plants start talking back. Not that he wanted them to talk back. 

Sometime in between midnight and dawn, Crowley took out his cell phone and dialed Aziraphale's number. He didn't know what he was doing, exactly, only that it needed to be done here and  _now_. When the call went to voicemail, Crowley thought he should hang up. No, he  _knew_ he should hang up.

But instead he said, "Angel, it's me. I have to tell you something. It's... It's important."

 


	6. Chapter 6

In the days following the Car Incident, it became increasingly apparent to Aziraphale that Crowley had no recollection of leaving a certain voicemail. At first, Aziraphale had thought that perhaps Crowley just wanted to let the whole ordeal slip under the radar, that he was embarrassed to have gotten so drunk and let his guard down. But when Crowley called on Saturday morning to ask if Aziraphale wanted to get breakfast, Aziraphale knew in no uncertain terms that Crowley did not know what he'd done or said. But Aziraphale couldn't forget. 

_"Angel, it's me. I have to tell you something. It's... It's important._

As they sat down to breakfast, Aziraphale found he could not keep his eyes off of Crowley. Even as Crowley nursed a headache, looking tired and ill, Aziraphale found him breathtaking. But hadn't he always thought so? Nothing made here and now any different than the other times they'd gone for breakfast. Nothing made today special. 

Except the voicemail. The voicemail had laid bare the secrets of Crowley's heart, secrets Aziraphale was certain he wasn't supposed to know. 

_Just... need you to know I'm in love with you. Have been since the beginning. Or close to it. Dunno, really. Feelings. Feelings're weird. Can't ever really remember how those start, just that you've got 'em and they won't leave you the f-heck alone._

"Angel," Crowley said hoarsely. "If you wanted cold coffee, you should've just asked for it iced."

Guiltily, though he had nothing to feel guilty about, Aziraphale took a sip of his coffee. "Thank you, my de—Crowley. Thank you, Crowley." He felt odd calling Crowley  _my dear_ , knowing what he knew. Things shouldn't have changed so quickly, not when Aziraphale was in love with Crowley himself. But Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to tell Crowley about the voicemail, even though it might help. He couldn't bring himself to tell Crowley because he was afraid it was all a mistake. Crowley might have called him in a drunken stupor, unaware of the things he was saying, just to have a laugh about it later. Aziraphale wouldn't risk that humiliation. He couldn't bear it. 

"Everything all right there, angel?" Crowley asked. He picked at the muffin on his plate, frowning. 

Aziraphale took another sip of coffee and prayed he wasn't blushing visibly. "Fine. Yes, everything's perfectly fine, de—Crowley."

At that, Crowley slammed his palm down on the table. It was far from an angry gesture, but Aziraphale felt it cut through him nonetheless. He took one deep breath, then another, and another after that, aware that he could feel his heart beating in his throat. He felt at once dizzy and sure, like he was standing at the height of some great drop. He could fall at any moment, he thought, and yet it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the sound of his heartbeat, the dry warmth of the air, and the planes of Crowley's frustrated face across the table. 

"That's it," Crowley snapped. "What the  _Hell_ is the matter with you?"

"I... Nothing," Aziraphale lied. He was terrible at lying. 

Crowley shoved his coffee aside. "Bullshit. You're acting weirder than usual and I don't like it."

A few things crossed Aziraphale's mind right then. One, that he could lie again and say everything was fine. Two, that he could say nothing at all and hope Crowley would drop the subject as quickly as he'd picked it up. Three, that Aziraphale could ask Crowley in a straightforward manner whether or not he had any recollection at all of leaving a certain voicemail. None of them seemed like particularly appealing options. 

"Angel," Crowley said, a little bit softer, more concerned. "You're worrying me. Come on, what is it?"

_"An' you can hate me or never talk to me again or anything. Just, if I don't tell you now, I'll never tell you. I'll never say a damned thing, angel, an' I can't live with that. Not anymore. It's eating me alive, I think. Loving you. 'S'going t'be the death'f me."_

Reluctant to break his silence, strained and uneasy as it was, Aziraphale stirred another sugar into his coffee. It would be far too sweet to drink now, but at least it was something  _else_ to do. When he couldn't keep stirring without raising alarms, Aziraphale stopped, tapped his spoon on the side of the cup, and stared into the swirling liquid. Far too acutely, Aziraphale felt Crowley's amber eyes on him, waiting for something like an answer. Aziraphale couldn't think of what to say. 

Finally, after what could have been minutes or hours, he whispered, "Do you remember much from the other night?"

Crowley shrugged. "Not really. Got drunk, crashed, missed half my classes on Friday. Why?"

One breath in, one breath out, and then Aziraphale said, "You called me."

The color drained out of Crowley's face. "I did?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice even. "Anything interesting on my mind?"

"Yes." It was barely audible. "You left me a voicemail. A rather long one. It was... oh, how do I say it? It was very—Are you  _sure_ you don't remember?"

Crowley shook his head, his lips pressed into a tight, bloodless line. "Not a syllable, angel. I'm sorry."

There was nothing to be sorry about. Aziraphale wanted to assure Crowley of that, but the words stuck in his throat. So he said, "Then I think you ought to listen to it yourself."


	7. Chapter 7

What made an awkward situation worse was having to watch  _another_ awkward situation happening at a distance. Sipping coffee and doodling on his calculus homework, Newton Pulsifer wondered whether he shouldn't just get up and leave. He'd already paid for his coffee, so it wasn't like he  _needed_ to stick around. He could just get up and leave. It didn't matter that his phone needed charging. He could leave. He didn't have to stay here and witness... whatever this was. 

To the outside eye, it looked like a lovers' quarrel. A pair of young men sat staring holes into the table between them. One was tall and thin and dressed in black, the other shorter and a little bit on the chubbier side (though Newt's mother would have scolded him for such a shallow thought) and wearing pale blue. They looked like they made an odd couple, certainly, but who was Newt to judge when he had never been in a relationship himself? Besides, it was quite possible they were on the verge of  _not_ being a couple anymore, given the sickly pallor on the taller one's face. 

Over the noise of the café, Newt heard him say, "Aziraphale, I..."

The one who must have been Aziraphale set his coffee cup down with a bang. "You don't need to explain, Crowley. It's all right."

The other one, Crowley, looked like he might throw up. "It's not, an— _Aziraphale_." Carefully, he picked up a pair of sunglasses from the table, unfolded them, and put them on like they were a suit of armor. From the way Aziraphale's muscles tensed, they were exactly that. Crowley, on the other hand, seemed to relax behind them, as if he were safe behind castle walls. 

 _Safe,_ Newt thought,  _but lonely_. It would have been a nice, poetic thought to leave on, if only his phone would hurry up and charge. 

"I wish I knew how to help you," Aziraphale continued. "You got drunk and made a mistake—not even a very grave one—and that's perfectly understandable. You mustn't let it torment you."

Crowley grimaced, mumbling under his breath. 

"What was that?" 

"I said,  _it wasn't a mistake_ ," he repeated. Every word came out harsher than the one before. "Happy now?"

For a long moment, Aziraphale stared at Crowley in silence, sitting as still as humanly possible in his chair. Then he looked away, his cheeks pink with what Newt thought was embarrassment. "No."

Crowley looked crestfallen and Newt felt a surge of overwhelming pity. 

"I wish you had told me sooner," Aziraphale said firmly. "I wouldn't have been angry with you. On the contrary."

Even Newt, foolish as he was sometimes, knew what that meant. It meant three things: One, that Crowley's day was about to get at least 60% better, two, that Aziraphale was relieved not to have had to make the first move, and three, that 23% battery power would have to be enough.

Careful not to be noticed, Newt unplugged his phone, picked up his coffee and his bag, and hastily exited the café.  


	8. Chapter 8

"On the contrary."

Crowley's heart sank. He could all but taste the pity dripping off of those words, thick and syrupy and disgustingly sweet. He didn't want Aziraphale's pity. He didn't want  _anyone's_ pity, but he always seemed to get it in the end. People pitied him for all kinds of things, too. They looked him over once and decided on the spot that he was melancholic. With a life story like his, they said, he had to be. Sometimes it got bad enough that Crowley entertained the thought of just  _accepting_ the pity that came his way, since rejecting it didn't seem to do any good. He could grin and bear it, keep his mouth shut until he was alone enough to scream into a pillow or punch a closet door. 

But Aziraphale had never pitied Crowley before. They'd been friends for far too long for that. Even when Crowley had knocked on Aziraphale's door at three in the morning, wet from the rain and on the verge of tears, Aziraphale hadn't pitied him. And Crowley must have been dreadfully pitiful then, fifteen and as good as orphaned by people who just couldn't see him as anything more than a burden. 

The last thing Crowley wanted was for Aziraphale to start pitying him now. 

"Don't," he said. His voice broke and he had to try again. "Don't, please."

"Don't what?" asked Aziraphale, his gaze devastatingly kind. 

"Pity me. I can't have you pitying me, too. It's bad enough that everyone else—"

Aziraphale sighed. It wasn't quite a pitying sigh. "Oh, Crowley, I would never..." He reached across the table for Crowley's hand, but Crowley shrank back. If the retreat insulted Aziraphale, he didn't show it, a mercy for which Crowley was grateful. Crowley didn't think he could stand to see Aziraphale hurt because of him.

They sat like this for a while, silent and separate, watching each other out of the corner of their eyes. These weren't furtive glances; they did not go unnoticed. Crowley noticed Aziraphale's gaze and Aziraphale noticed Crowley's. But, to Crowley's bewilderment and relief, the silence was no longer uncomfortable. If he closed his eyes and wished very, very hard, perhaps he could pass all this off as one of his nightmares, call it a day, and go about life pretending it never happened. He could pretend Aziraphale didn't know anything, that he hadn't left that stupid voicemail, and Aziraphale would probably let him...

Or, he realized, he could listen. 

"You would never what?" he asked, his throat dry and scratchy with nerves. 

Aziraphale startled, a curl of white-blond hair falling over his forehead tantalizingly. Any other day, Crowley would have reached out and brushed that lock of hair back into place. 

"Pity you," Aziraphale finished quietly. "Crowley, I wouldn't dream of it. You are any number of things—stubborn, frustrating, monstrously insensitive at times, kind and understanding at others—but you are  _not_ pitiful. You are far from it."

Crowley knew he was blushing by the way the skin on his face prickled and crawled. He balled his hands into fists at his sides, digging his nails into his palms as if he thought it would help. It didn't. 

He said, "You're really not mad?" and Aziraphale let out a tiny, surprised laugh. 

"I've been  _trying_ to tell you, my dear."

"Tell me what?" Fuck it if this wasn't hope Crowley felt. It terrified him. 

"That my only regret is that this came out now and like this. I hate to think of you so anguished over me."

Crowley shrugged, defensive. "It's fine. I'm used to it."

"You shouldn't  _have_ to be!" Aziraphale cried, and Crowley scoffed.

"No offense, ang—Aziraphale, but what else am I supposed to do? I can't just ask you to fall in love with me at the drop of a hat, can I? It's just the way it is. I'm in love with my best friend. You're a thousand times better than I could ever deserve. I can't... I  _don't_ expect you to love me back. And it's—"

"Crowley..." Aziraphale started. Crowley was afraid to let him finish, afraid of what he might say, so he took a deep breath and kept rambling. He could ramble on for a long while if he had to, having learned from the best ramblers on the planet, and could ramble an extra twenty minutes due to the caffeine in coffee. Most people, Aziraphale included, got rather tired of listening after only ten minutes. Some got bored after three or four. On very rare occasions, Crowley had been forced to ramble for upwards of fifty minutes. Halfheartedly, he hoped Aziraphale might get bored sooner rather than later. 

"It's not such a bad thing, really. A little rejection... it's good for the, uh, soul. The soul, yeah, that's it! A little rejection does wonders to get you into Heaven, right? Well, I wouldn't know much about that. Haven't been to church in years, but isn't it all about suffering nowadays? Penance and all that? Doesn't matter. It's just, I don't  _need_ you to love me back. Not at all. I'm fine. Fine, absolutely fine. Couldn't be better. You know. It's like that Latin bullshit about... truth in vines or something."

"Truth in wine?" Aziraphale suggested patiently. 

"Yeah. Exactly. Truth in wine. In wine, truth. However it goes. Alcohol. Crazy stuff. Anyway, my point is—"

"Crowley, if you would—"

"My  _point_ is... my point is—"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale snapped. "For God's sake, Crowley, would you just shut up for one minute and listen?"

Shocked, Crowley fell silent. He felt Aziraphale's words hit him like a slap across the face, stinging and sudden. For his part, Aziraphale looked just as surprised, if a little bit embarrassed. He hated raising his voice, especially at Crowley, especially in public. Then the shock wore off and Aziraphale straightened his bowtie as Crowley's fingers twitched toward his sunglasses, itching to push them up a little bit more. Instead, he took them off, folding them carefully on the table between himself and Aziraphale. Whatever Aziraphale had to say, Crowley didn't want to hear it from behind a wall of his own design. He wanted to look Aziraphale in the eye and really  _listen_. 

After another agonizing minute, Aziraphale cleared his throat and said. "I... I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to shout."

Crowley swallowed a wave of anxiety. "It's fine. I was being an idiot."

At that, Aziraphale softened, his cheeks going pink as his eyes flickered down toward the table. "A little. But only a little. If you would just let me finish, I think you might feel a great deal better."

 _Right. Sure._ "Get on with it, then. Impart your wisdom."

"There isn't any wisdom," Aziraphale muttered. "Crowley, what I've been  _trying_ to tell you is that I... I..."

"You... what?" Crowley heard the tremor in his own voice. He hated it. 

"Good grief, I see why you got drunk for this," Aziraphale continued. Crowley's heart skipped a beat. 

 _No_ , he thought.  _He can't be..._

"What I've been  _trying_ to say to you, my dear, is that I was quite grateful for your message. It gave me a lot to think about. Well, we've... we've been friends for a long time, and I think anyone would fall in love with you if they knew you like I do. If they knew how kind you are, how clever, how  _beautiful_ you are. Not just your appearance—don't look at me like that. It's  _you_. Your  _soul_."

Crowley didn't have the heart to tell Aziraphale what he thought about souls.  _Bullshit, all of it_. 

"You are completely and utterly remarkable, Crowley, and I would be an idiot if I let you go another minute without telling you in no uncertain terms that I've..."

"You've what?" Crowley repeated. He already knew. In his heart, he already knew. Aziraphale didn't need to say anything at all for Crowley to understand him. They knew each other too well. But it didn't matter. Crowley  _wanted_ Aziraphale to say it. He wanted to hear it, to know in no uncertain terms that he wasn't dreaming, that he wasn't losing his mind. 

Though Crowley said none of this out loud, he knew Aziraphale understood. He could see it in those clear blue eyes, in the smile starting to light up Aziraphale's face. 

"That I've fallen hopelessly in love with you."

Crowley wanted to say so many things. It wasn't hopeless anymore, not when Crowley felt the same way about Aziraphale as Aziraphale felt about him. Not when they both wanted the same thing. It was the opposite of hopeless. It was perfect the way Aziraphale was perfect, sweet and gentle as wind and cool, refreshing rain on a hot summer day. And at the same time, Crowley wanted to protest. He wanted to tell Aziraphale that he wasn't worthy of someone so wonderful, so  _good_. He wasn't good enough. He would never be good enough. 

He didn't manage to say any of these things. Instead, he stood up, pulled Aziraphale from the table by the lapels of his ridiculous, outdated jacket, and kissed him. And when Aziraphale kissed him back, he knew (in no uncertain terms) that he didn't need to say any of it. Aziraphale understood. 


	9. Chapter 9

Back in Aziraphale's flat, they lay on the sofa until time became all but meaningless—roughly speaking, they lay on the sofa for two hours and twenty-six minutes, at which point Aziraphale stopped caring about things like what time it was. Certain things were more important than time, like the way the top of Crowley's head fit perfectly under Aziraphale's chin, or the way Crowley nestled into Aziraphale's side like a serpent sunning itself on a garden rock. They had spent a while kissing, which Aziraphale had liked quite a lot, and then one of them (Crowley) had moved them into what could only be described as a cuddle. It might have even been, God forbid,  _snuggling_. Aziraphale liked this, too. 

"Tell me something, angel," Crowley murmured, his breath tickling Aziraphale's neck. 

"What would you like me to say?"

Sleepy amber eyes blinked open and closed and Crowley said, "That you love me. Tell me again."

"I love you," Aziraphale replied. It felt as natural as breathing. 

Crowley smiled; Aziraphale thought,  _Thank God I can admire his smile openly now._

"Can't ever love me as much as I love you." Crowley's tone was teasing, his voice soft and sweet. Aziraphale had to kiss him for it. 

"Don't be foolish, my dear," he said. "Of course I can."

They stayed like that for a while longer, Crowley drifting in and out of consciousness while Aziraphale stroked his hair and wondered whether or not they were allowed to call each other  _boyfriends_ yet. Were there rules about that? Did they have to wait a predesignated amount of time before words like  _boyfriend_ or  _couple_ or  _dating_ applied to them? If there were rules like this, did everyone know about them but Aziraphale? Was there some book or another about this kind of thing, or was Aziraphale just supposed to figure it out himself the way he imagined human beings figured out which berries were edible and which would kill them—trial and error?

It would be a stupid thing to ask Crowley, Aziraphale decided. So, of course, the next words out of his mouth were, "What do you think we should call this?"

"This?" Crowley sounded sleepy and confused. 

"Us."

Crowley pressed a kiss to Aziraphale's cheek, his lips cool and soft. When it was over, Aziraphale still felt the moment tingling on his skin. He could get used to this, to such open affection, to moments like these that stretched on for what seemed like hours, to hours that flew by like seconds. Crowley pressed a second kiss to Aziraphale's other cheek, then one to his forehead, then to the tip of his nose, and then finally to his lips.

"What if I called you my soulmate?" Crowley asked. It was so ridiculous, Aziraphale had to laugh. 

"You don't believe in souls, my dear."

With a wry smile, Crowley nodded. "Right you are. Boyfriend, then?"

"Do you think we can?" Now that he said it out loud, Aziraphale thought it sounded rather silly. "I mean, aren't there rules?"

Crowley shrugged. "Dunno. Never been in any position to call someone my boyfriend."

Aziraphale giggled despite himself. "Neither have I."

"Boyfriend, then?" Crowley repeated. 

"I'd like that very much," he said, as if it needed saying. Crowley answered with a kiss that said more than spoken language ever could. 

 


	10. Chapter 10

By the time the cast came off, Anathema had all but forgotten about the young men who had put it there in the first place. Adam Young, the boy she babysat on weekdays, liked to think they did it on purpose—professional cyclist-hitters, he called them. But that was no more than a flight of childish fancy, the product of a vibrant, active imagination. Never one to discourage imagination, Anathema let him think this. 

But as luck would have it, as Anathema left the library on a chilly October afternoon, she nearly crashed into the one called Aziraphale. She would have fallen, too, had he not offered a steadying hand and a smile and said, "Watch your step there, dear." Anathema liked the way he said  _dear_. It wasn't patronizing or mocking, only slightly concerned. Most people who said  _dear_ these days said it because it made them feel important, but not Aziraphale. Anathema could tell. She could always tell. There wasn't an insincere bone in Aziraphale's body. 

"Thank you," she said gratefully. 

"Anathema, isn't it?" 

"Anathema Device," Anathema replied. A phantom ache ran through her arm. "You hit me with your car."

Most people would have been insulted, but Aziraphale merely laughed. "Or you hit us," he said.

"Or I hit you," Anathema agreed. "How's the car?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "Crowley says better than ever, but I wouldn't know. It's... Well, it's a car. I prefer to walk, if I'm being honest." 

Anathema admitted she knew exactly what he meant. Cars were all well and good if you knew what to do with them, but she would take her bike over a car any day. She would rather feel the wind in her hair and the rain on her face than worry about gasoline levels and exhaust fumes. She didn't care for the idea of running someone over, either, though she kept that part to herself.

Behind Anathema, a teasing voice said, "Don't tell me I'm  _that_ late, angel!"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale made a good show of looking stern, but Anathema saw the adoration in his eyes. "You remember Miss Device, don't you?"

Peering over his sunglasses, Crowley examined Anathema's face.  _His eyes_ , Anathema remembered with a jolt. They were extraordinary eyes. Without the fog of pain and a mild concussion, Anathema took the liberty of a closer look. Although she had seen amber eyes before, she'd never seen amber eyes quite like Crowley's. In the right light, she thought they might shine gold or yellow, but in any light they were striking. After a long, almost theatrical moment, those eyes lit up in recognition. 

"Oh, Bike Girl! Good to see you out of the cast."

Anathema wanted to point out that he'd never actually  _seen_ her in the cast. He'd left A&E to sulk in his dented car in the parking lot, not that Anathema blamed him for that. She felt the same way about her crappy old bike sometimes, too. 

So she smiled and said, "Thanks," and Crowley smiled back, pushing his sunglasses up his nose again with one long finger. 

An awkward silence stretched between the three of them. Now that they'd discussed the bike and the car, it seemed there was little else to talk about. Normally, Anathema would have started in on the weather, but what was the point when they were all standing in it together?

"Am I keeping you guys?" she asked. "You said you were late."

Excitedly, Crowley asked, "Is it your turn or mine?"

Aziraphale's cheeks turned pink. "I'm not entirely... Oh, you go on, then." 

"A date," Crowley said. He sounded very pleased with himself. "We're on a date. Meant to thank you, actually. Running you over did the trick, I guess."

It took Anathema a moment to realize the implications of that. If Crowley was so excited to be on a date with Aziraphale  _now_ , it meant that he and Aziraphale had not, in fact, been on a date when Crowley ran her over with his car, which could mean one thing and one thing only: When it came to their feelings for one another, Crowley and Aziraphale were oblivious fools. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the two of them had feelings for each other. 

Except, apparently, it did. 

"I'll let you two get to it, then," Anathema said, turning to go. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Crowley tilt Aziraphale's face up for a gentle kiss.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

There were certain things about Aziraphale that defied description. Like the first morning they woke up together on the couch after falling asleep watching movies. Crowley couldn't put into words the feeling that had washed over him then, like warmth and safety and comfort all in one sudden flood. And by the time he'd snapped himself out of it and thought to wake Aziraphale, it became clear that Aziraphale was looking at him with that same rush of feelings. The strangest thing was, besides the kissing, nothing much had changed about their relationship. They still went for coffee and long walks; Aziraphale still insisted on reading aloud to Crowley when he found a particularly moving passage or quotation; Crowley still fell asleep at Aziraphale's dining table with his premedical textbooks under his head like a pillow. They still called each other "dear" and "angel" without it feeling odd or  _verboten_. Despite its newness, it was comfortable. 

"What I don't get," said Hastur, "is why you're going on about it."

"Pardon?" Crowley asked, sounding a lot like Aziraphale. They were sitting in a small room adjacent to the soundproof room that served as Tadfield University's radio station's headquarters, drinking coffee and looking through piles and piles of recorded music (all kinds of recorded music, too—CDs, cassette tapes, records, etc...). They were each, in their own way, very, very bored.

"If nothing's different, what's there to go on about? Say I grab a pint every Thursday night—"

"You  _do_ ," Ligur said helpfully. "And Fridays."

"Right, so say it's a Thursday afternoon—"

"It _is_ ," Ligur interjected. Hastur shot him a murderous glare. 

"And I'm going for a pint after this shift," he continued. "But I don't need to tell you, 'cause you already know. It's the same thing I do every Thursday night after this shift."

Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets, a herculean task when one considered the fact that they were women's skinny jeans. "Guess you're right, then. Things  _have_ changed."

Ligur flipped through a stack of CDs, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "I swear, if I see one more Queen album, I'm ripping the arms off whoever put them there." He glared pointedly at Crowley, who simply shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and tried to stand as still and quiet as possible. Even if he managed to keep his mouth shut, Ligur would figure it out eventually. 

So Crowley cleared his throat and said, "What about you two? Meet anyone interesting?"

Hastur and Ligur exchanged a look. As far as looks went, it didn't ring any alarm bells. What  _did_ ring alarm bells was the speed at which Ligur said, "Right, then. Back to work. Crowley, you're on the air this time. Hastur, you're with me. Not  _with_ me, obviously. Just with me. You know. Working with me. Good? Great. Perfect. Get in there and make us... make us proud or something." 

 _That was weird_ , Crowley thought. On the way out, he grabbed a few Queen albums and his favorite headphones. Once he was settled at the microphone, he switched it on and said, "Good afternoon, everyone. This is Anthony J. Crowley again, your favorite host, and today we'll be listening to... Best of Queen."

He got no fewer than fourteen call-in complaints before the end of his shift. Ligur, it seemed, was not the only one starting to get tired of Queen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do ignore the fact that I don't know how campus radio works. Let me know if there's anything you want to see in the next chapter!


End file.
